...The ride is glorious though. Despite the lack of vision, night seems brilliant. The dim Panos takes nothing away from the starlight, and overhead, through the glass top, the moon is visible. His driving is quick, and Edward remains genially quiet. Interest in you is shown in a shift in his seat, the furrow of his brow, a glance up your form. Footwell to headrest. The plane trees pass in rapid succession, lining the highway. If he meant to go to the village itself, he misses his exit. Instead, the car eventually angles off the road, following the signs to the Chateau. Where is he going?

     He would not notice the difference, Edward. He does not notice. That you are not living. That this is not real. That he is stepping off of the safe soil of mortality for the Otherworld. He does not know he is in the Ferryman's Skiff. Where are the coins for his eyes. He is unprepared. Unaware. There is just this ...connection. Between your eyes and his. In the energy upon the air between you. Sparks... almost visible. You could light your cigarette by them, quite nearly. Quite nearly. The only safety is in the belt that straps him in. The rest? The rest is headlong freedom. Of mortals to walk the tightrope between Life and Death -- and for Death to enjoy it...
     As the countryside passes by, in dark streaks. His eyes are more cast upward -- divided between you and the moon. And laughter. It is not a silent ride. It cannot be silent. But he doesn't spoil the surprise. No. He does not pester with a thousand questions. He savors. Savors the unexpected. There is no small talk, no idle words. There is the occasional sound of amazement. And as the last sign directing toward the chateau is seen, there was a glint in his gaze for you. Holy shit, I didn't think anyone still lived there...
     He does not speak, though there are a thousand questions in his eyes. As all mortals do, do they not? Valan replies to your interest by shifting in his own seat, more of himself available to your gaze... taking the opportunity... to study you. As he did in his first approach to you. Seeing how you command the car and your space. The smile remains, curling. Twisting. Knowing. This is going to be... an incredible night...

     Your laughter brings a wider and broader smile. Perhaps I have not paid attention enough to them. Mortals. To their comings and goings. The sounds of their voices, the beating of their hearts. Their needs and desires that mesh immeasurably to Our own. But that is the philosophy and talk of others. Not my clan. Not anymore. Yet he cannot help but smile and see things as you do, occasionally looking to the moon and stars and the passing world. A real look.
     The wall soon rises, demarking the Chateau. It is almost like a cake, this one, redone and rebuilt in the late seventeenth century. It is a reminder of Versailles or Chambord, with the low wall in a solid color, perfectly manicured approach, and what seems to be a glimmering moat inside. Where Versailles comes as yellow and white and Chambord is pale blue, Merillaise is peach. Round turrets mark each corner of the Chateau, and bridges cross the moats. It is an architect's dream, out of the last style of great building.
     The Panos rumbles towards one of the turrets, making an angle near a smallish door. Upon the gravel there, the car slips and slides, but soon enough Edward brings it to a halt. With the ignition off, the lights come up to a functional level, and he angles again to see you. "Safe and sound, hmm?" he murmurs, your door opening on its own. His does as well, and after a small smile, Edward says, "Care to see the inside?" A private tour. He swings himself out and to standing, pushing the door closed and quickly moving to your side to see that you get out easily. A hand is offered, his question still lingering.

     Too bad so few of them truly appreciate what they are. Here for an instant in comparison to you. Perhaps it is a simple matter of Time. Not having enough. They wake, they cry, they love, they die. Perhaps appreciation and understanding is too much to ask. By the time Realization strikes, so too does the ax of god. And so it goes...
     Safe and sound? "But will it last the night," he wonders. And then flashes a grin. Let's hope not. But then... only then... as lights are lifted and the car has stopped does Valan notice ...where he is. And then you see aristocratic eyes widen just a touch, as you offer your hand out. Okay, so he is shocked. Sandy hair is raked with a hand and he chuckles -- you notice, humor is big with him. The French equivalent of 'Wow' leaves him softly and he takes your offered hand. He gets out of the car slowly, eyes rising to the turrets, the castle. "You... work here?...Or..." Or what? Live here? You don't actually live here do you? "It's... incredible..." He is French, he has seen castles... but never so...intimately...
     Valan turns to you, the easy comfort in his skin returning. The residue of the shock lingers in his eyes. His mouth... full... sensuous... holds the slant of his smile... every twist noticeable. "Let's go..." Eager. Bold. Brave.

     He does like that. Edward blinks to think of it, then nods at the directive. Let's. He pushes the door closed once you clear it, and continues to hold your hand as he walks ahead and backwards. The car will see to itself. "I..." he begins, then smirks as he heads to the side door, "...it has been in my family a long time." You may make whatever inferences you like. "And thank you," he smiles, never having shown anything of his off in such a fashion. It is nice. Fingers are gentle around yours, but leading. He wants inside as well.
     A push at the large peach door, and a rather modern kitchen appears. It is dark for now, a few lights on here and there. It looks more the commercial kitchen of a restaurant than anything else. Just...a magnificently large house. "This is...one of the kitchens," he murmurs, pushing the door closed behind you again. Edward pads through and around the large silver prepping tables, heading not for what might be a large area, but instead, to a corridor where a staircase reveals itself. "What do you think?" he asks, trying to refrain from blushing, trying not to appear so honest.

     The silence since leaving the club. The car ride. The energy that was passing now finds a conduit in the joined hands. Fingers move. Lightly. Suggestive. You are leading, he is following. But his fingers... they are not shy about indicating... in warmth, in pressure, in strokes -- his desires, his wants, his reactions. Valan walks alongside you, eyes upon everything... slowly, but surely. As if absorbing it all. "This is one I have missed... how it that? I have been to the one in Touraine... well, just the winery tour, the rest of it is closed off now... " He looks to you. "Chinon..." he says, the name coming in the next bit of memory. He chuckles a little. Don't all guys who live in castles know their neighbors. "...It is..." his laughter was brief, and his eyes fix upon you. "Amazing, Edward... amazing..."
     As you lead him through, his stride matches yours. A stroll for your saunter. Fingers curl and uncurl against and about your own. Past the kitchens, which received an appreciative look and comment. All wealthy Frenchmen can appreciate a good kitchen, and yours are... gourmet. It is when you lead him into the corridor and its staircase that he narrows the distance between you. His hand grasps yours lightly and he leans in. "Remarkable..." he whispers. And he cannot help it. He cannot help it. The mortal only has so much will, only so much endurance. You can see him straining. I want your mouth, to own it for a night and to be possessed by it. His entire universe focuses there. "It is... so large," Valan murmurs, "...your voice must echo...does it ever get lonely, or do you move from room to room, to pass the time?" A soft tease. You can guess by his mannerisms, his reactions, that having such luxury is not shocking. He leans in... he cannot help it... and his mouth brushes against yours. Here in the corridor with its staircase...

     Chinon brings but a smile. Nice place that. But does it ever get lonely? Edward never moves so slowly as to think about it. He does not think about it...for he does not spend his time here. Perhaps that's why. "I only live in a section...the rest...it as it was. For tourists." And the brush at his lips, it causes him to stop. Coat sways at he pauses, and what was a brush soon is a tilt of his head. His open mouth widening to cover the sweet lips he has watched for a while now.
     Feet and self turn, hand dropping to reach for something far more desirable. Edward's arms quickly slip around your waist, and he pulls you to himself, tightening his grip. Behind, he falls against the smooth wall, taking you with him.

     My voice will echo. Down these hallways. Against stone walls. Architecture, art, luxury and extravagant living -- all these matters are set aside for conversations Hoped For Later. Lips that gave easy smiles, that formed French words with a Touraine accenting, that pulled upon the dark, burning cigarette... now give easy to your widening, and pull upon your own. Suckling, a slight biting upon your lower lip. He tastes of brandy, beer and hashish. He breathes deep, but quickening. It is a pleasure war this, and in the full flush of twenty-seven mortal years, you feel that intensity.
     Again, as his body meets yours. The liquid of his shirt pressed against the contours of his form. You feel the lean body beneath. His hands lift as yours slip around his waist. His slip in your hair. The kiss is more savoring than wild. A new experience. A discovery of flesh meeting flesh for the first time. Mimicking what the mind has played out for hours...

     Struggling, Edward lifts his feet. Left. Right. Up the staircase. It is not that far, really, to his rooms. The perennial bachelor. He takes what he needs and the rest is left. Already he groans, the man you are with, he drawing and drawing from you as he can. Your desire to ignite his own. Feet do not stumble, but are careful as he tries to wend you both up the staircase to the second floor landing. Then the third. His shirt burns and stains with the dust from the staircase's wall, pulling left and right as he moves. Strong flanks are under the material, and muscled midriff gives way to silver-covered hips. Those too speak of power.

     Occasionally, air lights your way. His arms that hold you pick you up easily. As if there was so little to you. A turn here, a pause there. In the brief respites, hands move downward, wondering what more of you there is. He too wondered what you were made of -- waist and lower -- wondering if he should find you but beautiful. And so he has. Finger toy with the waistband, teasing it to come off. Where comes his strength? His hardened length is easily felt, straining as if seeking you. Hands lower further, curling below the bands and cupping gently. It is as he imagined too, what the mind has played out for hours....
     What winding stone does to sound. Breaths are magnified. Every pull of a groan from masculine throats echoes. Like there are more of you than there are, all in similar straits. And a chuckle when he is lifted and carried and moved so easily -- the pleasantly surprised French -- moves otherworldly. Your flesh is known. By the coiling of fingers against the muscle that is revealed and against him. By the coiling of tongues, the one about the other. Mouths feeding so one upon the other that to part would be akin to death. Fiercely savoring now. By the press of hips, as if inadvertent in the motion, against your own. Hunger known by you both. It is electric. You feel his length at times against your own, and it reverberates throughout him. The journey is a pleasured struggle. How much farther?
     You are learning that he is agile. Graceful. But strong. There is no resistance but to gravity when you move him. His chest is broad, sides tapered. A life lived in pursuit of speed, activity, sweat. Even danger. You can feel this against your hands. And in the beading rise of sweat to his skin. He tastes of sunlight, Edward. Sunlight, wine and of your valley...

     The hallway sounds with the creak of a door and a rush of air. Something opened. Edward's lips do not ease, but instead become fervent. You have been carried the last distance. Compressed Time. He steps you both inside, pushing the door closed with a heave of his foot.
     The spacious room screams modernity. A living area of art deco, reminiscent from the Tiffany era. Painted glass panes substitute for canvas on the walls, some of the images eight feet tall. Black is the color de jour, with an arrangement of black leather sofas not centrally located. Glass and silver end tables and finishes adorn the room. There is a glass and black trim fireplace seated upon a wall, but it's an inner wall. Through the glass, a bedroom can be seen. Shared heat.
     He should let you down here, to stand upon your own two feet, upon the dark rug that covers most of the floor. Edward continues to move you both, arms gently at your waist, back...back towards the open door that leads to the next room. A fire rages warmly, the master having been expected.
     The white shirt Edward wears conceals little. We are a fighter, the muscles seem to say, the rest is simple covering. Wrestler? Boxer? Certainly no man who can have such a chateau would spend his time in banal physical pursuits. He could not tell you it was from a father who believed his son should know the value of a hay bale. Who believed in care of your own horses. Who believed in walking their family grounds and seeing to the tenants upon his own feet. And yes, he believed in fighting, jousting, and all manner of dirt-bearing pursuits that found their greatest expression in his oldest son.
     The kisses slow and hands are at your shoulder blades, massaging firmly. Some point has been reached. Your steps are invisible in part, done in the dark, done in a space unknown. But soon enough something can be felt at the back of your thighs. It too is dark, black velvet. And what was vertical now bends, heading towards horizontal.

     You will forgive him if he does not look around. If the return of Deco is missed. If colored glass goes unnoticed. If he does not stop and stare. It only comes in glimpses, like the breaths stolen in moments between fighting mouths. A flash of color there. Darkness here. Silver. Metallic. Exquisite textures. All this, only noticed between the cracks of lashes, in the tilting of his head in the tangle of the kiss that does not end. A door has closed. Somewhere...
     There is no recollection of space and time between the moment he was first lifted and this moment... when he now feels something soft and giving at his thighs. Hazel eyes open a bit more widely. Surprise that runs like a current through him and makes the kiss ... shocking ... even in its slowing. Valan chuckles and groans. A sound caught in throat and chest. Broad, but not from the real pursuits like hay or horses, but from gymnasium and skiing, sporting. Some of it is, of course, genetic. But the rest is merely expected. And as he lands beneath you and travel has ended... his exploring becomes more purposeful. Fingers widen, splaying. Reaching. Clasping. Sliding beneath your shirt at your shoulders to remove it. Mouth narrows around your lower lip, a suckle, a nick of blunted mortal teeth.
     This is the eye of the storm. The calm center. It will not last...

     Edward groans, heavy thighs pushing lighter ones aside. Dark hair falls slightly, but it is not so long as to be in his eyes. He rises, resting on his knees, breaking the connection that has held you both for so long. When he breathes, it is a rush of breath that fills and swells his chest, storming out in an audible exhale. A long look at you, taken not in glances or between lidded lashes, but an extended gaze that lets him see what he has found. For you? The same. The man above begins to unbutton what is left closed at his shirt, fingers slowly pulling the white cloth off and down his biceps. Last chance to change your mind. Speak now...

     There is no word, but a grin. Wide and warmed by the heat that has passed between you. Deepening in his aspect, as his smile touches layers of his blood he does not even know exist. But you do. Eyes that are flecked with gold in lust -- how extraordinary -- widen slightly in appreciation. I have died. This is heaven or hell... either one suits me if this is what it brings. Valan lifts up slightly and twists beneath you, shirt removed... the liquid bronze trailing off of his fingertips and somewhere in the darkness... landing with a whisper. Only you can hear this. What you see is sculpted, modernly so -- not by real work but by 'pursuits'. Sleek skin covering well-toned musculature. The effects of skiing. Of fencing. Of aristocratic pursuits, yes. He wears a chain made wholly of garnet around his neck. His skin is lightly olive, lightly bronzed -- nothing like the depth of color in your Southern Friend.
     What he sees is a god in form. Of what sort of life you lead... he cannot imagine. Although he can imagine a great deal of other things just at the moment. Hands, freed now of the castaway shirt, return to you. Whatever he can reach. Even as his gaze makes a slow journey from your face to your mouth, throat...chest...

     "Fencing?" Edward grins, letting the moment of marvel linger. His brown eyes are appreciative certainly, lingering at the garnets. "A gift?" From an admirer? My rival? He chuckles at the teasing, knowing he has no hold on you. Finger touches the stones to indicate the topic. "They're nice," he whispers, fingers dangling as they leave the garnets to trickle down your chest.
     He cannot recall hearing the sound of mortality so. Of humanity. It swells in his ears, your heart. Capillaries flush and expanding. A thundering noise with a windswept rush. That is how it sounds. Why have I never noticed? And the skin. His hand stops at your stomach, feeling the texture. Ah, but this is the lingered thought of hedonism. William will know of these things. What do I know? Edward's attention returns to you with a smile, leaving his own thoughts behind.

     You speak. It takes his mind several moments to catch up with his body. Oh yes, I heard that. The lips flushed, blood to the surface, Edward, from the fervent locking of mouths for the past seeming half hour, part and pull into a smile. "A gift," he concurs. Win me. Don't you want me? "Merci... red is... my favorite color..." Garnet, red as blood, Edward. Valan's voice is soft. It will be a gift. He is sure of it. But the eyes don't give it away. "Fencing... my favorite sport..." Something about running at men with long implements. The phallic symbolism is not lost on me. And to that, he chuckles... not speaking it. Not having to...
     But the laughter falls into a grin, the grin into distraction. You hear his heart pound, body fill with air. Living. It is like fucking the earth itself, in microcosm. The actual stuff from which the universe is made. Elements. And Girault wonders why William paints stars?
     Valan's eyes half-close and his body shifts beneath your own. Pants...fabric only gives so much...showing the effects of what you do to him. His flesh shudders to your touch... especially on the waves of muscles at his stomach. A little ticklish... and it makes the hardened length of him surge. There is a twist beneath and against you and a groan for that. You smile, and Valan returns it. Tortured. And beautifully so.

     He should not have you so tortured. And for himself...has he been ever so? With one who could actually make him nervous? How can I be nervous? I have done this...a thousand thousand times. To women, and of late, a couple of young men. But it is still different. His hands make quick shrift of his own trousers, the unmistakable tip-tip seeming louder in the quiet apartments. Do I want you? Yes...but...
     Sound has a way of confusing things. No, that was the sound of your own trousers opening, Valan. Silver reveals skin and so now do you. Compressed Time. Edward bends, leaving you with a view of the ceiling, his mouth exploring fencer's form.
     But torture, say some, is just another type of delight. I suppose it depends upon the type of torture, I am not into the whips and chains of outrageous excess, but...this torture? I can take this. I want to take this. He does not see your nervousness, Edward. He only sees that you make a study of his form. He sees you giving, exploring. It is no quick shag in an upstairs apartment in a swank palace. It is seduction, where the party is more than willing...

     And he is losing Time. Track of time. Some things come in slow motion, your mouth against his form. Other things seem to happen in a blur. What happened to my pants . But... that is what happens to the unimportant minutia like clothing when bodies are primed for pleasure and minds and lust are several steps ahead. Valan may have a view of the ceiling, but he does not look at it long. He strains to watch you explore him. Or closing his eyes and reveling in it. Moving beneath you. Constant motion beneath you. French comes out in a hushed stream. That was your name. Or was it god's?

     If this were London, he should think nothing of it really. Youth comes and goes, giving itself freely to him when he's bored, hungry, or simply out of things to do. But youth, wrapped in splendid beauty, given in silence. Given and accepted in knowing choice. He can say he was unaware when he took Ben to his bed. Unaware of Self. Of Desire. Of Wants. It is the way really. A circle. You fight, do not think they say. Thusly, you do not think. About much of anything. So many of Us are in this pattern. I don't want to think about it...
     Time flitters away, drawn in swirls upon your skin. Stomach, around the surging length, inside fencer's balancing muscle. Edward delves deeply. Arms stretch above his head, grasping at your hips. Holding. Controlling. All the while, whisper soft pants, your own, slide lower and lower, disappearing into the darkness that surrounds you both. Inconsequential as his own. Those too are now invisible. The bed sighs with the motions. Lift. Can you still see him? He appears content, this man you have found, in his explorations, unbothered, by your hoisted legs borne over his bulking shoulders and down his own back. His hands are left up at your reach, and his tongue...unceasing.

     If this were London, Valan would be lost. You are going to think he is provincial...that he has only gone once. No, it is in parts Bordeaux, Poitiers, Paris and Touraine that he most often dwells. Or in Switzerland. All of those empty conversations. The things you do not think about that would drive you mad if you did. Of the constant Going Nowhere that wealth encourages. The same ski lifts, the same exclusive clubs. The same vacations in Monte Carlo. Sometimes, he just wants to chuck it all in the wastebin and go live in New York. At least for a while the same conversations would be played by different accents. This is a new conversation, what is happening between you. Skin acquainting with flesh it doesn't know. It doesn't know the first thing about you. He doesn't even know your last name.
     He doesn't keep track of time. You could have been touching him for an hour. His thoughts are gone. It is all The Now. The Now of it. You. Him. His legs over your shoulders. That brings a long sound from him. No coherent words. Valan reaches out... not with his hands... but with the whole of him. You hear his blood sing. Surge. Call.

     If I told you my name...would you know what it meant? Would you run from me? Maybe you should. In this room, there are no parties, no chemicals, no elaborate setting of fast lights, smoke, and loud noise to whisk away anything of substance. This is all he is, for the most part. Think of how it should be, if those conversations were spread over centuries. The same voices. The same words. Going Nowhere, Eternally.
     He shall not claim what his cousin does, repeatedly and regularly, but he makes up for it in spreading thickness. Is that not with everything about him? Compressed Time steals ache, and in its place, gives sudden comfort. He is above you once more, and this time, firmly within. The surprise is his own. Edward cannot recall when he wanted to feel something so much, to know someone so intimately. Ah, there it is, Valan. I want to know you. In all senses, his eyes say, closing and opening once the heady rush of filling dissipates. Just you...for a little while. If you'll let me. Lowering, Edward offers to take another kiss, but a smile comes before it. The bed shifts with his moving weight, his elbows now into the velvet so that his nose floats above yours.

     Then perhaps we understand each other. Our worlds are the same. Smoke. Glass. Mirrors. They are the same. Are our worlds any different, Edward? But beneath this....what are we? Past the skiing. Past the parties. The talking. The whirl and swirl of skin and sweat? There is something there. Maybe that is why you are nervous. I am like you. We have a commonality...
     I want to know you. To discover. To get beneath the lights, the smoke, the swirl of conversation. Endless... going nowhere. This...this is going to Somewhere. I want to know where you're taking me. Even if it's only to the edge of the bed, Edward. I want to know the form, and what is beneath it. A puzzle. You are both the Question and the Answer...
     Valan's eyes close and the world slows. The universe clicks in place. And stops. There is only you, and him. And the joining between you. There is meaning... but it will not be discovered... for a while. His heart is racing. His breath is deep...but quick. Everything is focused. It is like the birth of a star. His eyes are gold with it when they open...

     ...Fingers twist and sheets bunch. Displace. Grasped and tugged tight. He thought the waiting was torture. But this... delight. Pleasure. So intense, his mortal frame has buckled. Even his. Even his. Strong blood, you have tasted it... full and surging and rich, like the wine of the Loire. And you are savoring him, like a glass of your Loire wine. Held in your mouth, he full of you. His body is a knot, tight and driven. So the hour has gone...
     In fire...
     In sweat...
     In slow motion...
     The bed is Creation and you are god and you are shaping your bundle of universal elements to your liking. To your wishes. To your desires. He is molding around your form. Active beneath you, not passive. You surge, he clasps. You hold in place, Valan coils beneath you. Legs, arms, fingers, mouth...

     Edward's eyes close, savoring still what pleasure you bring. It is unlike so much. His face turns, and dips into the gentle spot between your shoulder and cheek. "How long?" he whispers, a small bit of humor brought back to life. He lifts and buries his elbows further into the bed, sliding his hands down your back. Fingers curl into fists, enough to pull you from the bed.The room spins, cooler air coiling around you both. The velvet creaks, darker black now from where you both were. Edward suddenly is beneath, his hands on your thighs that rest at either side. "That's...it..." he whispers, watching you lift upon the altar he is. Exquisite. The hair, the garnets, the shoulders, the languid motion. His thighs widen, keystones upon where the altar's strength rises. If the mountain cannot come to you, you shall come to the mountain. His hands slither to your hips, and he rises and falls, undulating both gently.

     You pick me up and turn me around. Like an hourglass, end over end. And endless. The sand never stops spilling. Nor does desire have an end. It runs out of time...beyond time. You move me. As if I were of no more substance than a cloth. A piece of paper. I was there, but now I am here. Turn me over. Fold me. Make me any shape you like. Write upon my skin with your nails. Compose me. And I laugh...drunken, drowsy. I hear it from a distance. And my groan shakes some corner of the sky and room. It isn't until it bounces of a wall that I even hear it. Returning to me. "Dieu...Je suis avide... Toutefois longtemps il est, je le veux..." he murmurs, the last word is a groan as he throws himself upon that altar. I am greedy , he says, however long it is, I want it. Your tease returned with a coiling smile.
     Hands land with a thud and a sigh, either side of you. Pillows for grip. The garnets catch the light in his motion. Languorous yet...but deep. Each ...bow to that altar is punctuated with a swirl of his hips. He lifts... and lingers... then falls, a surge downward that is edged with a sound from his chest. Valan's hair, sandy golden drapes down where it is long... head bowed. And his body is constant motion. Quickening. He cannot help it. "Vous etes si etonnant..." Amazing... it is what he calls you. And you are drug and fire simultaneously. Consumed and Consuming.

     There is nothing like the sound of one's native tongue. He had forgotten how beautiful it can be. Love, diplomacy, passion...it is his own language that is the breath of them all. Edward smiles, too, for that. Another memory recaptured. He'd meant something else, when he asked his question, but no matter now. Your interpretation will also suffice.
     But it is the presentation of a heated throat that reawakens the vampire. That...is what I am here for, is it not? Edward's rises deepen, and one hand frees from you to grasp at the back of your neck, seizing the nape. Now, I am ready, he thinks, meeting you in the middle of the air swirling between you. I am. I see now. His canine distend silvery and Edward groans as he crests and sinks simultaneously...

     How long. Those were the words. How long will I stay with you? As long as you want me. How long will this last? How loud do I have to beg. How long have you been wandering, hoping someone has caught one piece of that endless conversation and decided to answer with something ...a little different? Too long, even though I'm still young. How long have we been in bed? God, who knows. I left my watch behind me when I left home. How long? How long will it take to know you?
     L'univers est contenu dans un baiser.
     Ne le laissez pas terminer.
     When the last wave of your form crests within his own. When he is penetrated both above and below. The young man with summer on his blood, against his skin, in his kiss, shudders in a last impaling. Caught by you in this -- the ultimate of all pleasures -- he cannot move but to shudder. To tremble. To spill oceanic. You feel the heated liquid on your skin. You smell the salt of seas and sweat. Your length is clasped and released in ripples out of rhythm. Your name is gasped. Your name is groaned.
     His sandy-golden hair is bronzed with sweat at his nape. Red garnets sparkle at your fingertips. Red. So red. Like Loire wine and his blood. Valan presses against you, shudders against you. As if pressing hard enough would melt him into you. Then neither he nor you would have to ask the question: How long...

     These draughts are heady. They come with the warmth and fulfillment of nascent knowledge. Edward's thighs quake as he collapses back upon the velvet, bringing you with him.
     Not long enough.
     Each swallow sings to him now, revealing things once hidden by blinders. Am I what you seek, beautiful Valan? You should not seek The Darkness. When you do, it finds you. Dark. Is that what I am? Not alive. Edward squeezes his eyes shut. Never has he lived as if he was one of the Truly Dead. Just...slightly altered. It is easier to be The End for someone who deserves it. Shall I be The End...for one I care about? That is the fear.
     How have you all done it? William...his love...love...is like him. Davydd? What if one he truly loved was mortal? To have to kill to love? That is not...me. But it is...and I have no choice. That will be the end of all things.
     Compressed Time.
     Edward's arms embrace you, his lips stained, but pressed together now as he lies upon his back. You...at his chest. How long have you been there , he cradling you. What happens next?

     Does it not find us all? For some, perhaps the journey is more delayed than for others. My first experience with darkness came in the late autumn of my twenty-seventh year. You do not have to seek for Night, Night always comes. You do not have to look for darkness, it is inevitable. It will arrive. You never die. You just stop attending parties...
     See, eventually that thread of conversation ends and you get to start another one. Maybe it will take a thousand years. Maybe it will only take twenty-seven...
     Flowers in a garden. Your fingers have skimmed a thousand thousand such. Giggling girls. Modern young men. Skimming, just enough to get their pollen on your fingertips. To stain them for a moment. Then the moment passes, Edward. And you continue walking. But to pause and to pluck. What does it mean? Does it mean you have to kill the very one you love? Can you not...love...the rose in your garden without picking it? Without pruning it. To love it and watch it grow as it will. Ah... now that is the hard part of love...
     Valan rests against you, for the moment silent. You taste his dreams. You taste feelings. Thoughts. Images. Are you surprised to find yourself in there. He is quite taken with you, Edward. Will you leave him? His skin sings your praises. His blood calls your name. He sighs, the exhale deepening into a groan. Dieu.

     What William would say if he were here... you can nearly hear his voice. See the look in morning glory eyes. The pause of Thought before speaking. He once spoke of loving mortals, after the Renaissance ... or during it. He cupped a butterfly in his hands... caught in the Medici garden. You can only hold this creature for three days... but in those days, you can love it as fully as you have ever loved anything. And the fullness of immortal love is in... observing each moment in its entirety. This is not something they can do themselves. And you love them as much when they breathe their last, as when they first landed in your grasp. And then the insect was freed. It was Girault who told that story once, after everyone had so much to drink... Alfonso probably has it written down somewhere...

     Edward shuts his eyes again. I can't do this, William. Not like you all do. And when five years have passed? Ten? How will I explain myself to him? Shall I leave him, falsify my disappearance, and watch him until his death? Or shall I be at his side when he is no longer, I still looking the same. Feeling the same for him, when he is gone?
     Broad hands are heavy as they caress lower and lower at the small of your back. Tenderness. The sweet tongue of his first language whispers forth, endearment there. "I am not sure what to say," irony in the first blush of antiquated French. Should I speak? Edward sighs a little, finger tormenting your garnets.

     In the next room, the black and silver clock frame chimes two.

     It is the hardest thing to do. To love, and to do nothing... though you have it in your power to delay the Inevitable indefinitely. There are always two choices: To love, and to Embrace... or To Love and Not To Embrace. No poet, philosopher, priest or king has ever been able to determine which of those is the transcendent choice. One seems selfish. The other smacks of martyrdom. In the end, as it is with God, sometimes you have to kill a thing to love a thing...
     Valan shifts to your touch. To your voice. Drowsy, after hours of pleasure. Of you. Of this. "Tell me..." he murmurs, finally, in the French of your shared valley, "... that I will have your number in my pocket. And that... you will not be in a hurry for me to leave..." Valan shifts against you. Slowly he lifts his head. His eyes are gleaming bright and glassy. His mouth parts at your chin. Garnets are warm against your skin. Slowly he lifts his hand. And the chain of gems glitters in the light. And around your own neck. "A gift..." Valan whispers and he settles upon you with a smile.

     Downstairs, there is yet another clock. The better part of it is stained glass, this a piece of Tiffany work that has no equal in the world. And as it chimes -- twice -- Indigo eyes continue to watch the journey of the hands. Cigarette smoke winds from a cigarette -- the burning end of the cigarette providing the majority of the light in the den. He is awake. He is dressed. He is drinking your scotch. William takes in a breath, holds it, and releases it in a sigh.
     Sometimes when you hold a butterfly... it only serves to remind you that you have the finest creature in the cosmos. But nowhere in proximity. And rather than pleasure, there is only longing. William's lips curl in a smirk, and he settles back in the embrace of one of the large leather chairs.
     Smoking. Sitting. Drinking.

     He shakes his head negatively, Edward smiling as you look at him. "I like to think of them...around you." Burnished red droplets. Me always there. He thinks a moment, then says, "How about...I find golden amber," hand at your hair, "...for myself...and wear it? Maybe," to answer your other question, "...you will come with me to a shop?" Yes. Yes. You will have me. Any way you wish.
     He has learned what longing is. And sometimes, he thinks of you, cousin William. Brother William. Newfound admiration is there, and in the moment, even he, Edward of Blois, thinks fondly upon one Ian Dunross.

     There is a smile. Thank God. And it comes upon an exhale. A sound of pleasure. Maybe a little relief. I didn't imagine this, you know. Fingers lingering upon the garnets lightly bring them back around his own neck... and his arms shift, to surround you. Still learning you. And now... he will have the opportunity to continue to discover. Learn. It is weird. He only went to L'Empereur to have a drink and to people-watch. And now, entire constructs have changed. "Oui...I will go with you ... of course... " Valan grins. "Name the day..." And then he lifts his head, eyes still half closed. There is amber in his eyes, you have seen. Just a touch of gold in the green. "Did I tell you that amber was my favorite stone." And then his grin grows. Favorite is a big word with Valan. At least in your company.
     There will be none more happy, nor none more shocked as William to see it. More happy. You know... it had to happen eventually, Edward. It is what we are all here to do, in one form or another. William will be pleased... grateful... to know you understand. It is the one thing we all wish, second to being loved. Being ...understood.

     And downstairs, as the hand of the tiffany cathedral clock move in subtle moments, marking the minutia of passing time, a cigarette is set aside for a cellular phone. Fingers pause. Should I just leave him alone for a night? Maybe he's out. It's only two. Indigo flickers to the clock. Two-ten. But the metallic device is opened, and fingers dial for London. Settling back, William takes up his cigarette again and shifts downward in the chair. Legs lifted so that flat of his feet is at the edge of the table. Thighs wide. He watches the stained-glass clock as he listens to the phone ring.
     A breath comes. Sigh. "Yes," comes his voice. It is cradled in relative silence. London never sounded so clear. There is a tinkle in the background. Ice. Whatever he is doing, it is in gentle quiet.

     "Oh, yeah?" Edward follows, French easy to come, "I like amber too." Things in common. "We can go...later this evening?" He chuckles, seeing the night roll into another day again. Biting his bottom lip, Edward peeps, "Are you hungry? I can make you a drink..." But he moves not so quickly. Edward stills. "Maybe," he smiles, "...there are other things first?" Like a name. Where you are. Why the gun on the floor. Or perhaps you do not care. Please, tell me do you do not care...

     "Hmmm... a drink might be good..." Valan murmurs. Then smiles against your skin. "But ... in a moment. I'm...too comfortable to move... " There is a shifting against you, as he readjusts upon you. He lifts up upon an elbow, propped up by a handy, nearby pillow. "Much." His laughter is soft and warm. His smiles do wonders for him. And even out of the light of a club, he is still beautiful. "I know of a nice jeweler in Tours," he murmurs, his French coming easy, if a little drowsy-languid. "It is where I got this...a gift to myself..." No one gave it to him. "Ah... more from you, oui? You just gave it back to me...Now it is from you..." Then Valan pauses, both grinning and blushing. "You know... I should introduce myself, shouldn't I." I am in your home. I am still straddling you. The roseate mortal complexion only goes to a bronzed crimson afterwards. "Valan Montague..." A wink in that for you.
     And this is how stories of love begin...

Posted by rowan at February 03, 2001 01:43 PM